Verses in the
old style
Great carriages raise swirls of dust,
Darkening the fields at noon:
What golden plenty have these mighty eunuchs,
Whose mansions reach the cloud!
See them on their way to a cock-fight—
What magnificent headgear, what canopies!
The breath of their nostrils makes a double rainbow.
Folk by the roadside shake with fear.
Since the time of the wise old man who washed his ears”*,
There is none to distinguish between
* An ancient sage, Xu You who was offered an imperial
position washed his ears in shock.
**
** *Zhi was a brigand of notoriety.
The
What heights!
It is easier to climb to Heaven
Than take the
Long ago Can Cong and Yu Fu founded the
Forty-eight thousand years went by,
Yet no road linked it with the
Westward from
Wandered to the summit of
But not until brave men had perished in the great
landslide*,
Were bridges hooked together in the air,
And a path hacked through the rocks.
Above, high peaks turn back the sun’s chariot drawn by
six dragons:
Below, the charging waves are caught in the whirlpools:
Not even yellow cranes dare fly this way,
Monkeys cannot leap those gorges.
At Green Mud Ridge the path winds back and forth,
With nine twists for every hundred steps.
Touching the stars, the traveler looks up and gasps,
Then sinks down, clutching his heart, to groan aloud.
Friend, when will you return from this westward
journey?
This is a fearful way. You cannot cross these cliffs.
The only living things are birds crying in ancient trees.
Male wooing female up and down the woods.
And the cuckoo, weary of empty hills,
Singing to the moon,
It is easier to climb to heaven
Than take the
The mere telling of its perils blanches youthful
cheeks.
Peak follows peak, each but a hand’s breadth from the
sky:
Dead pine trees hang head down into the chasms,
Torrents and waterfalls outroar each other,
Pounding the cliffs and boiling over rocks,
Blooming like thunder through a thousand caverns.
What takes you, traveler, this long weary way
So filled with danger?
One man could hold this pass against ten thousands:
And sometimes its defenders Are not mortal men but
wolves and jackals.
By day we dread the savage tiger, by night the serpent,
Sharp-fanged sucker of blood
Who chops men down like stalks of hemp.
The City of
But it is best to seek your home.
For it is easier to climb to heaven
Than take the
I gaze into the west, and sigh.
*This refers to a legend in which King Hui of the Qin
empire promised his five daughters to the Prince of Shu. Five brave men went to
fetch them. On the way back, they encounter a serpent which fled into a cave.
As they were pulling the serpent out, the mountain crumbled. The men and princesses
perished in the disaster. Since then, a rocky path linked both empires.
Travelling is
Hard
Clear wine in golden goblets, ten thousand cash a cup.
And costly delicacies on jade platters.
Yet I spurn drinking and toss away my chopsticks.
Sword in hand, restless, I wonder what to do.
I want to cross the
I want to climb the
So idly I fish by a limpid stream.
Dreaming of sailing towards the sun.
Travelling is hard! Travelling is hard!
So many cross roads: which to choose?
One day I will skim the waves, blown by the wind,
With sails hoisted high, across the vast ocean.
Fighting
South of the City
Last year, we fought at the source of the Sangkan,
This year, along river-beds in the Pamirs:
We have washed out swords in the foam of Parthian seas,
And grazed our horses among the snows of Tianshan.
After campaigning ten thousand li
Our men our men are weary and old
White bones are
the only crop in these yellow sands.
Where the House of Qin built the Great Wall against the
tribesmen.
The House of Han kept the beacon fires ablaze.
There seems no end to the fighting..
In the wilderness men hack one another to pieces.
Riderless horses neigh madly to the sky:
Kites and crows tear out human entrails,
And fly with them and hand them
In branches of dead trees:
The blood of soldiers smears grass and brambles:
What use is a commander without his troops?
War is a fearful thing—
And the wise prince resorts to it only if he must.
Song of
Inspector Ding
Yunyang sends conscript labor to the Yangtse,
Both river banks are alive with men and trade:
When the buffaloes of Wu pant beneath the moon,
Its weary work hauling boats!
The river water’s too muddy to drink.
Thick silt fills half the pot:
When workmen chant the Inspector’s Song,
Hearts break, tears fall like the rain.
Ten thousand slave in the quarries.
But who will haul the stone to the river bank?
Look yonder at rocky Mang and Dang—
What tears have fallen here since ancient times!
The Song of
Green Water
Green water, bright autumn sun,
On
The lotus, so lovely they seem to speak.
Fill the rowers with despair.
Thoughts in
Spring
The grass of Yan is green silk,
Dark hangs the mulberry boughs of Qin.
While you, my lord, are longing to return,
Your handmaiden is breaking her heart at home.
Ah, why does the spring wind, a stranger,
Part the curtains of my bed?
Thanks to Lata Iyer for submitting these compositions